


No Worse A Love

by hailrogrs (heron_holmes77)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heron_holmes77/pseuds/hailrogrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'he can never be mine.<br/>but i am always his.'</p>
<p>no worse a love than unrequited</p>
<p>just a little stucky drabble <br/>based around bucky's thoughts towards steve that i had stuck in my head</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Worse A Love

**Author's Note:**

> as i said in the summary, this doesn't have an actual plot  
> it's more or less bucky's thoughts towards steve  
> apologies if it's a little disjointed  
> i just had to get the words down  
> enjoy!!

Everything about him is all encompassing, devouring any and all available space in my head and burrowing deep into my core. His essence taints every part of me till I may as well be conjoined with him. His pain is my pain, his happiness is my happiness, the fears he harbours I reciprocate. I can’t escape from him. Nor do I want to.

My head is filled with him; with the filthy, yearning want to feel his skin on mine, his arms ensnaring my waist, his steady fingers delicately tracing shapes and words and thoughts along my spine and sending shivers all over my body. No space between us. Just skin on skin, one dissolving into the other. The taste of him on my tongue.

I would feel entirely safe within those arms, those broad shoulders protecting me from harm. If I close my eyes and raise my hands now, I can almost imagine the sensation of them pressing against hard, toned muscle, feel the careful, calm, rhythmic pulsing of his heart against my palm. He’d feel so warm, so powerful, so  _alive_.

When he speaks passionately about his country, gesturing wildly with his hands and his voice a delicious pattern of emotive highs and lows, all I can hear is music and all I can see is perfection. Every vowel, every syllable that leaves those lips … I feel as though the world ought to hear them, that he is a treasure all should bow before. Those words ought to be worshipped as gospel, falling from his mouth like golden rain.

When a woman smiles at him from across the bar and the tell-tale flush of embarrassment crawls across his cheeks and he lowers his head, I don’t feel envy. Nothing close. All I can feel is the sensation of how each of his long, dark eyelashes would feel against my finger tips if I was ever ordained to touch them, watch how they ghost across the sculpted bone of his cheek like butterfly wings. He would clear his throat and shift anxiously on his stool, muttering a quick, ‘stop staring, punk,’ as he downs the remainder of his beer despite the knowledge of it having no effect on him. I smile. He doesn’t have a clue. He’ll never have a clue. But that is the way it ought to- needs to be.

He can never be mine - and never should be mine -, but my imagination can roam all it pleases. I can dream, hope, wish, yearn, I can barter my very soul, but that is all. Like observing a beautiful, delicate painting from afar; I can bask in all its splendour and glory and yet never truly know it’s wonders or touch the aging canvas.

That’s what he is to me: beauty, living art, a gift upon the earth. The embodiment of good and what all should aspire to. What I aspire to.

He can never be mine.

But I am always his.


End file.
